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Thursday, July 15, 2010


Time steals youth like waves thief the soil
and mushes it to slushy silt
Visions once strong as oxen gait
fade like leaves on autumn trees wilt.

Time’s a crude fire; smelts love from a heart
fond moments from minds like copper from bronze
extracting core Truth from precious al-loys
some rivers turn streams, some oceans turn ponds

Time is...water carried in a wicker basket absent-mindedly handled as if the vessel would miraculously retain the inevitable...
Copyright 2010 K. Omodele

Saturday, July 10, 2010

Woman Who Cried

  Woman Who Cried
Copyright K. Omodele 2007

Can I mend your lacerated heart?
Douse the fire pain
and together face hard-wind rains
that lash slash slash lash.

Woman let me soothe your punctured heart
Saddle my back your burden-load
The climb feels a steep
never-ending, raggy road...
my shoulders can brace your wailing soul

Copyright K. Omodele 2007

***This poem is a tribute to my Auntie Jenny who lost her elder son, Kirk, over fifteen years ago in a gun accident. I have seen, first hand, how such a tragic loss can affect the human spirit and soul. Everyday, she Rises... and I think that is testament to the resilience of the Human Spirit.

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Thursday, July 1, 2010

Cupful Reasoning

Copyright K.Omodele 2010

A worn-out team of laborers, bellies swollen from lashing down lunch ‘pon rapid, loaf under a scaffold shading them from the hammering, midday-Manhattan, summer sun.

“Wha’ in de hell colonization have to do with de damn World Cup, Dreadie?” Bajie asking, tooth-picking his domino teeth, then snorting out a laugh. “Gah bleh, man, ganja got yuh reasoning light headed or what?” Checks his watch.
Dreadie eyes stick tight to his HTC phone screen as the ESPN commentators dissect England’s brand new loss to Germany. Standing over his shoulder catching the commentary, Trevor shoves down a last-couple fry plantains.
Dreadie answers without lifting his eyes from his phone. “Is my theory, Bredrin. First World Cup EVER on African soil- none a de colonizers dem shall win this Cup! The AnceSTARS nah mek dat line up none at all!”
“True, True,” Snickering, Trevor adds. “Talk to he, Ras. Ah bet Bajie sick, sick, sick dat Jolly-Ole England get she face cuff in.”
Bajie twists up his shovel mouth, sucks his teeth then turns. “Rudeboy, tell him nuh. Is pure dotishness this man talking. One thing ain got nuttin to do with de other.”
Rudeboy coils his lanky frame on a putty bucket and flicks out a cigarette. “No sah. Baj, I hope di Dread right. It mek perfect sense to mi,” he answers, smiling, eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Wunna mad, mad. So tell me nuh, who gon win it den? Ghana is de only African nation still lef in it, yuh know.”
Dreadie peels back his tam and flashes his locks. “Mek I tell yuh who nah goh win: England, France, Italy nor Portugal.”
Everyone except Bajie laughs.
Dreadie continues. “Neither Netherlands, Spain nor Germany-”
“Germany? Why not Germany?” Bajie sounds like teacher prepping them for CXC. “Dey certainly were not colonialists. Plus, you see how strong the side is-like machines. German engineering.”
Dreadie finally pries his gaze from his phone screen and penetrates Bajie with it. “Doan matter because, yes, Germany did a portion a colonizing too.”
Trevor buss out a laugh. “Wait, Bajie, yuh ain never hear bout Cameroon and German East Africa- Tanzania an dem place? Personally, Dread, I think South American team gon win it- four a these final eight team come from there.”
Bajie scoffs. “Of course you would say that, Guyanese. So who you have winning? Let me guess nuh- Brazil?”
Dreadie contemplates while placing his crown back on his head, eyes still on screen. “Either dem or Argentina.” He tucks rope thick locks under the tam once more.
Bajie pounces and blasts a shot from left field. “Wait! How you doan consider Ghana, Mr. Africa Unite; Brother One Blood; Comrade Stand-Up-Fuh-We-Reparations-Now?
Dreadie glances up. “I want Ghana win, Bajie, ‘ca I want see Africa do good. But yuh know, even when Brazil win, is African victory.”
“Yeah, fi real,” Rudeboy adds. Checks the time and unfolds his legs and jumps up into a stretch.
“I tell you bou’ smoking that ting dere, Dread,” Bajie utters, shaking a finger at the Ras. “Brazil is not in Africa!”
Trevor Intervenes. “Yuh chupid bad, Bajie. Yuh always sound so like yuh want be a British Subject again.”
Dreadie turns off the screen, pockets the phone and rises. “Baj, but Africa is in Brazil!”
Bajie’s face soaks in bewilderment as each man grabs his hard hat and shoots into the mouth of the building.

More Construction Crew Stories on The Abeng and My Conscious Pen
Abeng Tribute: Gregory Number One      Reasoning: Conspiracy Osama                          

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